How to Get Girls, Get Rich, and Rule the World (Even If You're Ugly)
Chapter 66: How to Rescue Someone Who’d Never Admit Needed Saving (6)

Chapter 66: How to Rescue Someone Who’d Never Admit Needed Saving (6)

The shadow between the shelf and the wall was narrow, suffocating, damp like the hot breath of a secret that didn’t want to be found out.

My back was pressed against the cracked plaster, and every breath had to be measured, slow, controlled — as if the air itself carried my name and I was trying not to be called. The door was still ajar, but through it, I could clearly see the figure that stepped inside.

A man. Tall. His posture was far too confident to be a healer, but lacked the martial weight of a guard. He wore a dark cloak with discreet golden embroidery — fabric far too fine for this place.

His steps were soft, trained, like someone used to walking where they shouldn’t. Behind him came another figure — one I recognized.

That greasy smile. Slicked-back hair. The belly stretching his mayoral sash. It was the same politician who had tried to grope Thalia at the bar a few days ago, with that paternalistic air of someone who thinks "offering an opportunity" is just a classy way to hunt the vulnerable. And now here he was, walking up to her bed with half-closed eyes and a hushed voice, like he was about to pray... or order a hit.

"So she’s alive, then," he said, voice sweet enough to hide poison. "Still pretty, even unconscious. What a waste of talent — poking around where she shouldn’t, sticking that adorable nose into old contracts and names no one cares about anymore."

The other man didn’t reply. Just nodded with a low murmur. He seemed less invested in the drama and more focused on the task.

"Said she was a journalist," the politician went on, with that syrupy tone of someone who’s practiced the speech too many times. "I thought it was cute. Romantic, even. But the truth is, this new generation’s got more teeth than sense. She talked to at least three merchants on the hidden payroll and... well, you know what that means."

The other one turned his gaze to the bed. His hand slid into his cloak, pulling out what looked like a short, curved dagger — faintly glowing, malicious.

"Do it right," the politician said, already turning away. "And please, clean up afterward. Last thing I need is a scandal in a sacred building."

He left without hurry, pulling the door closed behind him. When the latch clicked with a sharp snap, I felt the air shift. The room was sealed now. Just me, the assassin, and Thalia. Alone.

The man moved silently. He pulled the chair with care, positioning himself beside the bed like he was about to begin a mute, meticulous procedure — the kind an executioner might perform while disguised as a nurse.

His right hand held the dagger, short and recurved, forged from a darkened metal laced with obfuscation enchantments — hard to detect, easy to plunge.

The blade caught the weak light of the room with a shimmer that looked almost organic, as if it was vibrating in anticipation of flesh.

His other hand, the left, moved without haste, fingers extending with clinical precision, gliding along the side of Thalia’s neck with a softness that didn’t hide its lethal purpose — just tried to cloak it as one last caress.

He was about to strike with surgical precision, the kind of execution that required absolute coldness and practiced skill in silent killing.

[COMBAT PROFILE: CONTRACTED ASSASSIN]

Type: Silent Executor (Subterfuge/Precision)

Equipment: Enchanted Curved Dagger (ignores light armor)

Style: Single, lethal, close-range attack

Passive Skills: Resistance to sensory magic, silent steps, minor textile camouflage spell

Weaknesses: Vulnerable to physical holds, low durability against direct damage, weak blunt force defense

Bonus: +3 in enclosed spaces with unconscious targets

Note: Trained to complete missions without direct confrontation; withdraws if noticed or if first strike fails

That’s when she woke up.

Her eyes opened slowly, like someone surfacing from a dream too heavy to be just imagination. First, her eyelids fluttered, hesitant. Then, a flash of light struck her iris, and awareness trickled in — wavering, suspicious, like an animal sniffing the air before leaving its den. Her breathing picked up slightly, uneven but still quiet. She blinked twice, trying to focus on her surroundings. She didn’t get it at first. Saw ceiling. Dim light. A shape.

And then her eyes, now fully open, met the figure in front of her. The blade, gleaming. The hand, about to touch. And realization hit her with the brutality of lightning — sudden, sharp, undeniable.

She didn’t scream. Just widened her eyes and jerked her body with an instinctive, almost feral strength that pain and exhaustion immediately crushed. Her body didn’t respond the way it should have. But her gaze — that was wide awake. And terrified.

And I was already moving.

I sprang from the shadows with the precision of an animal trained by desperation. One step, two, and my hands locked around the man’s neck from behind, fingers digging in until I felt tendons and a frantic pulse trying to escape.

[ATTACK: STRANGULATION]

Type: Direct Physical Attack (Silent)

Execution: From behind, tracheal lock

Accuracy Modifier: +3 in ambush scenarios

Damage: Ongoing (progressive resistance and consciousness loss)

Bonus: +2 against distracted or unaccompanied targets

Risk: Minor defense penalty if attack fails and enemy retaliates

Target Resistance: Gradually reduced per round without escape

Note: Can interrupt spellcasting or action if held for more than 3 seconds

He gasped when my arms locked violently around his neck, and the attempt to react was more reflex than resistance — the involuntary twitch of someone who senses the end before having time to process it.

His body stiffened for a brief second, like it still believed escape was an option, but the pressure of my fingers didn’t let up, sinking into his tendons like an irrefutable truth.

The blade slipped from his hand, spinning in the air before hitting the stone floor with a high-pitched clink, ringing out like the final note of a cursed symphony.

The chair he had been sitting on scraped back slightly, groaned in protest, and toppled sideways, its muffled crash blending with the ragged breathing of the man now trembling under my grip.

I kept squeezing, every muscle in my body fueled not just by survival instinct but by a raw, quiet rage, unceremonious and sharp.

The kind of rage that doesn’t shout — it bites. That doesn’t explode — it burrows into the bone. And even as his weight wavered, even as the air left him in fractured wheezes, I held on.

Because the image of that blade at Thalia’s throat was still fresh in my mind. And because stopping, in that moment, would’ve been the same as letting him try again.

He thrashed hard.

My body was thrown against the nearest wall with the kind of force that would make an anvil jealous. My back hit the plaster like the final beat of a war drum, and the air burst from my lungs in a soundless explosion of pain.

But even with my vision still blurred, I saw Thalia shrinking into the bed, pillow pressed to her face like that could hold back a scream desperate to crash through the walls.

The assassin turned to me, wasting no time, and charged. A punch with more mass than technique. I dodged by inches. The chair he kicked smashed against the wall, splintering like it had been cursed. I rolled to the side, grabbed the fallen dagger before he could see it — and when he lunged again, I threw the blade at his knee.

It didn’t stick, but it did enough to break his rhythm. A stumble. A choked cry. And that was all I needed.

I leapt onto him. Arms around his neck. Weight on his shoulders. He staggered and threw me again — this time onto the bed.

Thalia jolted instinctively. But even as I fell, I clung to his tunic, yanking with everything I had. And that’s when his own weight unbalanced him.

He toppled sideways like a mud-soaked log finally giving in to its own rotting weight, and the sound of him hitting the ground echoed through the walls like the building itself groaned in protest — a deep, muffled crack that felt born from the foundation.

For a second, I thought the floor had collapsed, that we were about to sink into rubble — but it was just the crash of a heavy body giving up on standing.

The kind of sound that doesn’t just signal a physical fall — it announces the quiet surrender of a defeated predator.

I got up before he did, blood still pounding in my ears like a runaway drumline.

Crossed the space between us with a breathless lunge, planting my foot on the bastard’s shoulder with a force that didn’t come from muscle, but from the urgency of staying alive — of saving someone. I pushed down hard, twisting until I felt the pop of a joint giving out not from a break, but from sheer surrender.

His body went limp, like even conviction had finally drained out, and for a moment he looked more like a heap of fabric and spite than an actual human being.

I rushed to Thalia, who was still breathing like someone trying to pretend they weren’t. I took her arm, pulled gently, feeling the tremor beneath her skin.

Her eyes, still glassy from shock, locked on my face for a second — just long enough for me to know she was present, buried though she was beneath the weight of pain and fear.

Her legs refused to help, but her body leaned into mine like it recognized that, twisted or not, the path out was with me.

I looped her arm over my shoulders, gripped her waist tightly, and together — in a kind of clumsy synchronization — we made our way to the door. The sounds on the other side were already there, waiting. Loud bangs, uneven. Muffled yelling, stuck somewhere between orders and panic. Rushed footsteps with no rhythm — too many people wanting in, none of them brave enough to force it.

The unconscious figure of the assassin was still slumped against the door, his body collapsed like a living lock, a blockade of flesh and resentment. I looked at him with a mix of disdain and sarcastic gratitude.

"Excellent place to drop dead," I muttered, with the kind of humor that only shows up when death slips out the back door.

I turned the handle slowly, feeling the wood tremble under the strain of built-up tension, but it didn’t budge right away. The man’s body blocked it, pressing against the frame like a makeshift wall. I sighed, tasting metal and exhaustion on my tongue — and then I kicked.

The door cracked open with a dry pop, just enough for me and Thalia to slip out, our bodies pressed together like two halves of the same stubborn mistake. Behind us, I heard shouting — not from us, but from those trying to enter, now faced with the mass of dead weight clogging the way. None of them dared push hard. No one wanted to be the first to touch what might still be breathing.

And we were already gone.

Running through corridors that quaked with the echo of confusion. And if luck — the kind that never owes you anything — stayed with us, no one in there would want to be the one responsible for moving the man who tried to silently kill a patient.

Thalia was still breathing. Weakly, yes. But steady.

And me...

Well, I was carrying someone on my shoulders. Again.

And if there was a lesson in all of this, it was that life really does know how to write a damn good joke. Shame it never asks if you’re ready to laugh.